Thirty Two Faces - 9. Resolve

Ever since my brother came home this summer, I’ve become more interested in the outside world. Dad says I don’t stare into space blankly as much, and my face is more expressive when I talk. I feel there are more things to write in my journal. The drive to understand how I feel becomes more compelling and clear: I’m hoping to find some insights to deal with everything that is going on in my life.

My fear that our escapade in Eden was only a childhood interlude, a visiting phantom, was unfounded.

Eden became our favorite haunt again.

We would make our pilgrimage every few days, not in his stylish RX8, but on the trusty old mountain bike. The car would get us there faster, but doing it that way would entirely miss the point. It isn’t the destination, but the journey that counts – and who you travel with. It’s the intimacy that matters – hands on shoulders, chest to back, both of us overgrown for but somehow still managing to fit onto the old Rockhopper Comp. The smell of the country road, the smell of tar under the hot summer sun, his sweet pungent scent sweeping into my face along with the morning breeze of dew, wood, leaves, earth and all the fragrances of life – all presented to my face like a bouquet of roses.

We would hang on tree branches, sometimes upside down with our knees hooked, just to see who could last longer. And we would play other silly games: counting the leaves on the trees while lying on each other’s laps; whoever completes first wins. And Samuel always wins; he always finishes counting before I do.

“And Dad actually thought of sending you away alone…” he says.

“Why?”

“You believe everything.”

Even though we hardly talk there, Eden is no longer a brooding ground for us to ponder the mysteries of life. After that night of spontaneous frolic, it seemed pointless to rationalize something that’s meant to be savored.

Just like beauty, just like love, just like trust. And when life fuses all these wonders into a single being, when something so precious is offered, you cup both hands and ask no questions. You just wait patiently for the butterfly to land and let it linger as long as it’s meant to.

A butterfly crawls on my skin. Samuel calls it Christine.

Why Christine?

Samantha then.

“Samuel. I’ll call it Samuel.” I broke the spell by looking up at him.

“Why?” he asks. But there is no questioning in his face; he knows the answer. He just wants to hear it from me.

“Because it is beautiful, and I can’t hold onto it. Just like you. Everyone wants to pin you up in an album.”

I flap the fingers on my free hand, imitating the wings of a butterfly.

“Except for you, Babe.”

I don’t understand what he means; I was trying to use a metaphor. He doesn’t really think people will pin him up in an album, does he?

And we watch the butterfly fly away. Such is life. Beauty dies the moment you try to pin it down and lock it away in a box.

What is trust? This is trust. Stay very still, wait long enough, and the butterfly will be back. And it will bring many friends along with it.

And we spend many days of our summer like this, in this enclosure.

 

# # # # #

 

Ever since Mom came home, my brother and I split the household chores. I’m responsible for cooking and washing dishes, and he vacuums and mops the floors. We are supposed to take turns with the laundry, but every time when it’s my turn, Samuel stands aside and watches. I flinch when the machine rumbles loudly.

As soon as I press Start, I run away before it makes the angry rumbling sound; it’s like some monster chewing up little children for supper.

“You look like you’re feeding the lion.” He folds his arms, leaning against the wall and chuckles.

Some people find the dark scary –like clowns or a room full of dolls. I don’t trust things that make loud, scary noises, especially after my brother made me watch Transformers. Even daily household appliances can be sinister aliens in disguise.

“It’s just a movie, Babe.” Samuel slaps his hand on his forehead.

“I know. I’m trying to connect to the show.” People often talk about movies or TV shows they watch as if the events are real.

“You’re supposed to do it while you’re watching, not after.”

That’s not what I see. Kids in my class always talk about the last episode of Breaking Bad or Glee. It’s as if they care more about fictional characters in TV shows than the real people around them.

“Okay.” I shrug. I guess I have to trust my brother’s word for it.

“What are we having for lunch?” He rubs his tummy and asks. I take out the remaining olives in the cupboard. “Not that again...”

What does he want to eat, then? Pizza. I don’t know how to make that. Mac and Cheese. It’s not healthy for Mom.

“Fine. Let’s go ask Mom what she wants, then,” he says.

She looks amused when I try to take orders from her, asking her what she would like to eat for the rest of the week. I need to plan ahead, download the recipe and try it out – just in case the cooking instructions aren’t clear and the food turns out funny. I take out the notepad and scribble down her orders diligently with a pencil.

But I regret asking her because I don’t even know how to spell all the dishes she mentions. I’ve never even heard of them.

Kung Pao Chicken with Szechuan sauce

Escargots de Quimper

Fugu Sashimi

….

“Mom. Stop messing around with him.”

My brother stands at the doorway, frowning and chuckling at the same time. Mom covers her mouth; she seems to be laughing or hyperventilating. Her body is shaking.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

She holds up one hand to indicate she’s fine, placing the other hand over her heart as if to ease her breath. I can see that she’s smiling now.

“I’m sorry, Babe. I’m just playing with you.”

I smile. Mom is having fun, and that is good. But what I don’t get is why she and Samuel find it funny. “They are real dishes, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but they are very hard to make. You probably won’t even find the ingredients in the supermarket.”

“Then why is it funny?”

She picks up the little napkins from her food tray; I’d folded them the way they do in restaurants. “You march in and take orders like a little chef, all so serious,” she says. Then she confuses me further when she says I can cook whatever I like.

Samuel interjects as if Mom has dropped a grenade on the floor, “Whoa, wait a second, Mom. You don’t want to tell him that. He’ll end up making chocolate cake every meal.”

No, I won’t.

Mom’s not supposed to eat sugary stuff. Besides, I don’t know how to bake a cake yet, but I suppose it won’t be too different from brownies. Perhaps I can find a recipe that uses one of those natural sugar substitutes. Mom will…

“SEE? Look at his face. He’s seriously planning on it, I’m telling you.” He points at my face, but it doesn’t feel threatening, not even when he pinches my cheeks.

Mom examines my face as if she’s trying to decode it. She shrugs like she can’t find anything, so she says, “All right. Just grilled salmon will do.”

Then she smiles. And I write down grilled salmon.

Marinated with teriyaki sauce and herbs. She smiles so brightly; it’s as if the sunshades and curtains in her room aren’t drawn.

It’s during these times when you actually have to do these daily chores – cooking, washing, ironing, cleaning – that you start to appreciate your mother. Imagine, she has had to do these for two decades.

She must have really loved the routine.

Or she must have loved us a lot.

 

# # # # #

 

My brother loves to play loud music when he vacuums and mops the floor. Sometimes, when he’s in a good mood, he’ll sing along. And when he thinks no one is watching, he might even dance to a tune. Really loud music upsets me, so he’ll come into my room and put on the large ‘Star Wars’ headset over my head. It covers my entire ears, and on the strap it says,

Total sound immersion guaranteed.

“Here you go, Princess Leia.”

The large, spongy, ear pads remind everyone of Princess Leia’s famous side hair buns. It’s just for show, because the headset is never plugged in to anything.

Other times, I’ll follow him around and watch him mop the floor. He likes my company even when we’re not talking or doing anything in particular. Just the idea that someone familiar is there when you look up can warm you up like a cup of hot chocolate in winter.

Outside the headset, the music resounds throughout the house. Mom is at the hospital with Dad for her checkup. So Samuel is fooling around with the mop more than he’s cleaning the floor.

At times, he’s riding on a broomstick. Then he’ll lip-synch to the tune, strumming air as if the mop is a guitar. Or he will dangle the mop in front of my face, water dripping and all, just to get a reaction out of me. Often I’m his faithful audience, laughing at every joke and antic. It’s a lot more entertaining than watching movies.

This is real.

He enjoys the attention I give him. The harder I laugh, the crazier his antics become. There is one happy song he often plays which I particularly like, and incidentally it is called, ‘Happy’. I don’t need the headset for that song. He likes to dance to it, and he will sometimes throw down the mop and pull me to dance with him.

Samuel doesn’t think I’m dancing. He says that jumping up and down on sofas, flailing limbs about randomly is what preschoolers do when they have too much Coke.

Mom and Dad don’t think I’m dancing, either. When they come home and find me jumping about, they debate between calling a priest or a mental institution.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to let these two live together?” Mom shakes her head and suppresses a chuckle. Dad simply smiles and shrugs.

“C’mon, Mom. Have some fun.” My brother dances around her, inviting her to join in. In the background, the chorus of the song is playing,

Because I’m happy - Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof

Because I’m happy - Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth

Mom laughs and throws up her hand, and says, “Oh, what the hell.”

Then she starts grooving with my brother, clapping to the tune like a flamenco dancer.

Because I’m happy - Clap along if you know what happiness is to you

Because I’m happy - Clap along if you feel like that’s what you wanna do

Dad smiles, but he doesn’t join in.

He simply stands aside and watches the three of us prance about with abandon. Mom moves her shoulders and her hands; Samuel gyrates his hips to the rhythm. I move every joint in my body. It’s like my cells wants to vibrate with the tune.

We dance differently, but we are allowed to be ourselves, to be naked. Watching Mom dance is like seeing her undressed. You are not supposed to look or know what she is really like behind closed doors, but there she is, naked as a baby in the way she dances – her face, embarrassed yet emboldened, jolted by our electric exuberance.

“Be careful of the stitches,” Dad says gently when she takes his hands.

“Relax, Jack.” It’s funny to hear that from Mom; she’s hardly one to relax. It’s nice in a way until the next sentence. “It’s not like I’m getting out of this alive.”

Her face is smiling and jovial; Dad is smiling, too. Despite her flippant tone, I don’t understand how Dad can be happy about it.

She gets tired quickly, but she is still smiling. Dad thinks she needs to rest.

“Keep it down,” Dad says to my brother before they walk up the stairs.

After they leave, my brother holds both of my hands and says, “Come, I’ll show you how to dance properly.”

 

# # # # #

 

That afternoon, I go up to Dad’s study and ask whether they are hiding anything from me. What Mom said earlier disturbs me, like she already knows the outcome and is giving up.

“You think too much, Babe. Mom’s just getting a new perspective on life. We all are.”

Mortality puts things into perspective. I don’t understand, because I never thought anyone would be immortal. Nothing has changed for me.

Dad says that most people live as if they can live twice – once for rehearsal and once for real. And most of the time, we spend rehearsing, worrying that if we follow our hearts, doing so will lead us to ruin and shame. By the time the gravestone is within sight, we realize we spent most of our lives bunkering our hearts to keep them from breaking. And when the heart is fortified to the teeth, you would have entombed yourself in an airtight sarcophagus. There’s no way you can break out to live the real life any more. No one can look inside except for the respectable stone face carved outside, meant for the public. Just like the Egyptian pharaohs: worshipped like gods, but all embalmed flesh within – sterilized, delibidonalized, all vital organs and fluids drained and surgically removed.

I seldom see Dad drink whisky. Those bottles in the glass display were hardly touched until recently. He seldom speaks so much to me, as well, and not so personally. And he doesn’t talk to me as if I’m ten years old, which he usually does. Although right now, I wish he would explain the things he says in ways I can understand. Because, all I know and can see from his face, is that he is sad.

So I hug him.

And it becomes clearer to me about what he means by being entombed in a sarcophagus. His body is stiff and slow to return my hug as if his hands and shoulders are made of stone. Maybe we should bring him and Mom to Eden. Let them frolic by the river by the pristine lake. A little dance and tumble could shake off the weariness in their eyes. It seems to work for Samuel. We can have a family picnic there. Samuel and I could go and watch the fireflies while they swim.

“That sounds really nice, Babe. Perhaps another time, when your Mom is better.” Dad puts a hand on my shoulders.

 

# # # # #

 

Samuel must have expected me to hang out in his room after we were done with the chores. He enters my room while I am changing. He asks, “Where are you going?”

“To meet Peter,” I say, slipping into my comfortable pair of berms.

“Just Peter?”

I find his question strange. Why should I meet anyone else? So I just shrug. He stands there quietly while I pack some towels and spare tee shirts into my backpack. Then he walks out of my room after saying, “Have fun with your boyfriend.”

Another thing that confuses me about the world is that people assume you will always like a boy once you like a boy. Or for that matter, if you have a girlfriend, you can’t like another boy. How can you decide whether you like someone or not without smelling them or touching them first? Without getting to know them to see if they are nice to you?

Just like strawberries and chocolates, girls and boys are nice in their own ways. Girls often have long silky hair, they are soft and squishy, and most of all, they smell of fresh fruits and flowers. You feel safe around them, like the little lambs in Uncle Rob’s ranch – so small and fluffy that you want to pick them up and cuddle.

Most boys aren’t attractive because they stink and their skin feels like sandpaper. Not to mention that they are usually mean and loud and they love to point at others. Samuel used to stink as well until my nose discovered the sweetness in his pungent musk. His body is covered with soft furry hair – on his chest, on his arms, on his legs – not like a carpet, but enough for his skin to not feel like sandpaper to me.

I like touching furry animals, like dogs, bunnies and cats. Just like with my brother, once you get used to the animal smell, it’s actually quite nice. But most importantly, I feel safe when he’s around. Girls feel safe to me in the harmless sense, but my brother watches out for me. I know I’ll be safe when he’s around.

Romantic relationships baffle me. I know very little except for what my instincts show me and what Samuel tells me. Even my internet surfing is limited to the few websites that I have bookmarked: Harvard Physics, Puzzle Dungeon, Runner’s World, Computer Science Today, Parkour channel on YouTube etc. Once in a while, I will Google or wiki something interesting. There isn’t much motivation for me to explore beyond my comfort zones.

Googling about love yields very funny and often conflicting definitions. The only credible insights I’ve gained are from this TED talk by an anthropologist lady. She said there are three parts of our brains that are responsible for love. One part makes us horny, another makes us fall in love with someone, and the third part makes us want to stay with a person for a long time. That’s why, according to her, you can have sex with someone but fall in love with another and then marry a totally different person altogether. It kind of makes sense now why Dad got so friendly with his secretary five years ago when Mom got so upset. Maybe Mom is not as soft and squishy as she used to be. And maybe that’s why we moved to Wyoming. Few of the ladies here are soft and squishy.

Peter shows up in the park, punctual and smiling, smelling of lime and fresh soap. I like him, but I haven’t decided whether I find him attractive yet.

Since now I have a friend, I can ask him all about love. It’s refreshing to hear about the world other than from my brother or from the internet.

“What?! No, dude. You don’t promote someone to be your girlfriend. It just happens,” Peter says.

“Then how will you know you’re special to them?”

“You… just kind of know, I guess. It’s hard to explain.”

He does the preparatory exercises I showed him the last time, but he isn’t jumping high enough to do a safe backflip. After a while, he stops to catch his breath. Meanwhile, I show him how to swing his arms up so he can jump higher.

“Why don’t you look at people when you talk?” He collapses on the grass, exhausted after half an hour of tucking high jumps.

“I do.”

“Yeah, right. You either stare or don’t look completely.” He pants and looks at me. “See? You’re staring at me right now.”

“I can’t tell what you’re feeling from your expression. Not unless I look very closely to decipher it.”

“Is that your excuse for rubbin’ yourself against Elaine?” He chuckles.

I nod my head, sheepish and embarrassed.

“You were quite famous two years ago, you know.”

“I don’t know. No one talks to me. My brother didn’t say anything,” I say.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He stops smiling and pats his hand on the ground, indicating that I should sit beside him. “So what’s your side of the story?”

“Mom and Dad told me I can’t touch other people’s privates, but they never said mine can’t touch others.”

“Geez. Can’t you figure that out?”

“How? It isn’t in any school rules or codes of conduct.”

“From her f-” He pauses as if remembering something, then lowering his voice and says, “Oh yeah, your problem with faces.”

“People don’t like me to stare, as well,” I mumble, hugging my knees and tucking my chin between them.

“If it makes you feel any better, you just did what every guy in school had secretly hoped but had no balls to do it. Elaine is HOT.”

“She was nice to me, and she hugged me. I was sad she didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

“Why do you go around askin’ people to hug you?”

“I didn’t ask her. She talked to me, but I told her I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. Then she hugged me and said, now we’re not strangers.”

“Well, she graduated long ago. No point frettin’.” He shrugs.

That’s true. Soon, I can leave my shameful past behind me.

“Why do you mouth words to yourself before you speak? It’s like you’re repeating everything twice,” he says.

“I-I don’t talk in my head, so I need to rehearse what I want to say. Based on what I see inside.”

“What you see? You mean like reading subtitles?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Wow. You’re an interesting dude. Like some alien.”

I nod my head and laugh. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

“Whoa! You can laugh, as well. I thought you were a robot. Full of surprises, aren’t you?” He punches me lightly on the arm. I surprise myself by not even flinching.

Somehow, my body must trust Peter already.

By evening time, I need to leave so I can cook dinner for Mom. I don’t want Peter to go, so I invite him to my home so he can try the backflip on my trampoline. It’s a lot safer, and it doesn’t hurt if he fails. He can even stay for dinner. Friends are allowed to be invited for meals, I think. Peter scratches his head and says, “Maybe next time, dude. Princess is waiting for me to catch a movie.”

“You can ask Rachel to come too. I like her.”

“Erm, sure. You’re not going to rub yourself on her, are you?” His face is blank, lips neither curved upwards nor down. I worry for a minute, fearing that I might have offended him by saying something inappropriate. Then he nudges me in the ribs, smiling and says, “Hey relax, I’m kidding. That crazy girl probably won’t mind.”

I smile awkwardly, trying to figure if the second part of his statement is part of his joke. In any case, I don’t think I want to rub myself on anyone again. Being slapped publicly once is enough for me.

“Did I hear someone talking bad about me?” Rachel sneaks up to Peter and pulls his ear.

“Ouch. Tell me you aren’t crazy.” He rubs his ears.

She sticks her tongue out at Peter. Then she turns to me, smiling, batting her long lashes with her hands clasped together, “Hey, Kyle XY.”

“My name is Keith, not Kyle.”

“Arggh! Don’t you watch TV?” She rolls her eyes and throws her hands up in the air, like she’s praying for rain. She looks so funny that I laugh.

“Dude, you look creepy when your face goes from blank zero to hysterical in seconds; you’re not a grand-prix driver.”

“No, I don’t have a driver’s license.”

Peter pulls his curly hair while Rachel laughs at him.

“Oh, he’s so cute. If only my brother would be so adorable,” she says to Peter.

My face feels hot when she kisses me goodbye. I can’t look at them when they wave, so I wave back looking at the ground as they leave. Peter growls at her as they fight, hit each other, laugh and then finally hold hands as they walk away.

On my way back, I find myself smiling when I jog past the plastic pane on the bus-stop sign and see my reflection. Beneath the pane, there is a Walmart sign next to the Star Transit bus logo. It reads 3 stops away, and the next bus is arriving in 5 minutes. It’s only 4 minutes past 5 p.m., and Mom doesn’t eat dinner early. So I could go to Walmart and get her some fish. She likes grilled salmon.

After the euphoria settles down, the whole idea of being trapped with a bunch of strangers in a moving vehicle seems like a terrible idea. When the bus actually arrives, I find myself getting cold feet.

“Are you getting on or not?!” The driver yells at me as I stand at the bus stop rooted to the spot. I swallow, put my hand inside my pocket, and clutch the Swiss Army knife tightly. When the driver yells at me and sounds the horn, I run up quickly and almost tumble in. I don’t dare look at his face because he looks upset and scary.

Gripping onto the pole tightly, I mentally rehearse what to say before asking him about the fare.

“One dollar.” He jabs his finger at the sign and starts driving away.

I fumble with my wallet as the bus starts moving. Taking out the debit card, which I’ve never used before, my hands shake as I hand it to the driver. I’ve seen Samuel do it a dozen times: just swipe it and remember the pin.

“Kid, are you serious?” the burly driver snorts. He throws up his right hand and says loudly, “Do you see any card machine here?”

He is loud and mean.

The people sitting behind are all staring. Biting my lips, I open my wallet and find only a single, uncreased ten-dollar note. I take it out and hand it to him.

The driver heaves a loud sigh and says, “You need exact change; you won’t get any back.”

I hold out my hand with the note, unsure of what to do. Mom may not be very happy with me paying $10 for a bus ride, but it beats getting me arrested for not paying the bus fare or getting thrown off the bus in the middle of nowhere.

Before he can reach out to take my money, an old lady pulls my hand away. She says, “I’ll pay for you, young man.”

She hands a dollar to the driver and smiles at me before returning to her seat. Under such circumstances, I know I’m supposed to smile back because of her kindness, even if she is a stranger. But my face and body are too frigid to move a muscle. I hope she can feel my gratitude through my wide-eyed stare.

Despite the ample number of empty seats in the bus. I stand there frozen, gripping the pole tightly, closing my eyes and ready to count the number of the times the bus stops and the door opens.

“Move to the back! You’re blocking the way for other passengers,” the driver yells.

I dash to the back of the bus and grab a pole with both hands. I look straight out of the bus window, trying not to stare back at everyone who’s looking at me. I close my eyes and think about Mom and the fish.

“Young man, which stop are you getting off at?” the old lady asks.

“W-Walmart,” I answer, still looking out at the window.

“It’s two more stops. Why not take a seat?”

“I-I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

She nods her head and goes back to her seat all the way in the front of the bus. A middle-aged man and his grey frizzy beard frighten me when his gaunt eyes meet mine. I shut my eyes tight until I hear the bus door open and I see the huge Walmart sign outside; then I sprint out of the bus.

I stop only when I get inside the supermarket. A sense of overwhelming panic comes for a brief moment, as if someone has thrown me into a box and shaken me around like dice. The huge, wide-open space, rows and rows of shelves, commodities of every shape, size and color displayed, shopping carts moving everywhere, music playing in the background, unfamiliar faces surrounding me. I squat down and tuck my head under my hands.

Breathing deeply and counting, I calm myself down enough to remember why I am here.

Fish, I’m here to get fish.

When I realize the mall security guard is staring at me and starts to walk over, I quickly pick up my bag and stand up, heading towards the fish and poultry section before he catches up with me.

I remember everything like a scanner does, because every scene is crystal sharp to me. Like those super-high-definition television sets except that the memories are so painfully sharp that they get burned into my brain. That’s why I don’t like doing new things or going to new places alone, because all these details scramble for my attention when I see them for the first time and they are fresh.

Like the flint [‘lint’? otherwise I’m not sure what flint means in this circumstance] on the man’s green woolen sweater, third square down his left shoulder, standing in aisle nine to my left.

Or, the third button on the cashier’s red jacket for Checkout Counter 4, which is missing.

It’s not that I have super eyesight. It’s just that my brain doesn’t have the natural ability to focus on important details, to use the same mechanism that allows most people to focus on the key features and movements in faces and immediately understand them, however subtle the movements may be, to know what the other person is feeling. Only through repeating routines do I learn to filter out irrelevant details in familiar places.

Without Samuel around, I don’t have something familiar to anchor my attention. Turning left to right, up and down, my head feels dizzy from the tsunami of information.

Fish, I’m here to get fish.

For Mom.

Breathe, focus, and look for salmon, teriyaki sauce and some rosemary. Forcing myself to tune out everything else, my vision tunnels to the array of colorful fish displayed in the freezer section 20 yards away.

Finally reaching there, I stack as much salmon as I can fit inside my bag so that I won’t have to come back anytime soon.

I’m done with the fish. Now the herbs and the teriyaki sauce.

“What are you doing, kid?” The security guard points his finger at me and says in a loud voice. I don’t like him pointing at me, so I walk away. I just want to get home as soon as possible.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going? Open up your bag and show me,” he shouts, but I walk straight ahead away from him.

He slaps his hand on my shoulders from behind, trying to pull the sling of my bag off. Startled, I push him away instinctively, making him fall against the shelf, and then I walk away more quickly.

Heads are starting to turn towards me.

“HEY! Stop right there,” he demands as he runs up towards me, slamming me against the wall and pointing his finger close to my face, “I’m warning you-“

I kick him as hard as I can, frightened by all the people who start gathering around me.

Call the police.

Something’s wrong with him.

He’s on drugs.

“Put down your weapon,” the security guard says, pointing his finger at me again. I realize I am holding onto my pocket knife.

“Put down your weapon, kid,” he repeats. I drop the Swiss Army knife onto the floor. More people gather around me, talking loudly and pointing.

I collapse to my knees, pressing my hands over my ears hard and groaning.

Drown out every other sound with my groans.

Thank God, the police are here.

I can still hear people talking.

Loud sirens.

Hands grab me by the shoulders, and I push them off. They hurt me, twisting my arm and dragging me away. I knock my head against the police-car window, trying to shake off the loud noises echoing within. I can’t cover my ears because my hands are cuffed.

Stop doing that!

The words are familiar, but it isn’t Mom’s voice. The hands are thick and strong, but the scent doesn’t belong to Samuel. It reeks of sweat, stale coffee, doughnuts and aftershave.

I feel much better when they lock me up in a tiny cell by myself. Nothing inside feels intimidating; it’s just plain walls, plain ceiling and plain doors. All my belongings have been taken away. I don’t know what time it is, but I feel safe now.

A sergeant leads me out of the cell and asks me to sit down on a wooden chair. The skin on his neck look scaly, and he scratches it every few minutes. The ticking clock on the wall shows 11:47 p.m.

I hadn’t cooked dinner.

The policeman opens a file and start writing as he asks me if I have any family members.

I tell him that I do.

Then he asks me who they are, so I told them it’s Dad, Mom, Samuel, Uncle Rob, Aunt May, Cybil my cousin, Alistair their dog, Grandma Jonna, her sister -.

Then he interrupts me to ask where they live.

Grandma Jonna? She lives in Fjällgården.

Where is that?

Sweden.

Am I trying to be funny?

No.

Air expels from his nose, which means he could be tired, sarcastic, angry or bored. I’m not sure since the volume of air and the speed of exhalation is neither here nor there. There aren’t a lot of contextual cues in his tone, either. I’m not familiar with him, so I do not know how much air he normally expels for each expression.

Anyone I can contact?

Yes.

Who?

Samuel, my brother.

“You might want to see this, Shelley.” Another policeman, younger and taller, hands him a file with my name written on it; it says missing-person report and 2011 on the cover. That’s when I’d gone missing for the night and had woken up in the woods. I didn’t know Mom and Dad had filed a police report.

When he flips it open, there are pictures of four boys whom I do not recognize pasted inside the report. He reads the file, looks up at me occasionally, and then he takes a pen, waves it at me, asking, “Is your name Keith Meier?”

Why does he ask if he knows my name?

“Kid, do you understand me?” he asks.

That is a question, so I nod.

“What are you doing with ten packs of salmon inside your bag?” he asks.

“I’m cooking for Mom. She’s sick,” I answer, as a matter of fact.

“Did you intend to pay for them?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you hide them inside your bag?”

“I didn’t hide them.”

“Then why didn’t you show your bag to the guard?”

“He pointed at me.”

He stops writing and looks up at me. He might be confused, so I explain my rationale more clearly.

“He didn’t have the right to check my bag since I didn’t leave the store. There is no probable cause to suspect theft and therefore the request was an intrusion of privacy,” I say.

“So you’re not retarded.”

“So I am not retarded.”

He looks down again and continues writing his report. After some scribbling, he asks, “Then why did you threaten the guard with your knife?”

“I don’t know. He might have hurt me. It is a probable cause since he has no right to detain or intrude on my privacy. I have the right to defend myself under-”

He holds up his hand to halt me. Nodding his head, he says,

“Kid, I know people have done nasty things to you before, but you know you can get into hell of a lot of trouble with that knife.”

Officer, my brother wouldn’t steal things. I swear! He doesn’t even know how to lie.

I can hear my brother’s voice outside the room, stirring up a commotion.

What do you mean? Use your fucking brains. Why would a 17-year-old kid steal salmon?”

The sergeant stands up from his chair and goes outside.

Don’t worry, we’re not pressing charges. We’ll let him go after taking the statements. Just make sure he doesn’t carry that knife around again.

When they let me out of the room, I am surprised to see Mom and Dad outside.

“Babe,” Mom rushes up to hug me, “I was so worried about you. You want some salmon? I’ll cook it for you.”

She brushes back my hair with her frail, pale hands.

“I-I want to grill salmon for you.”

Walking out of the station and towards the parking lot, I take stock of the things the policemen returned to me.

“Where is the salmon?” I dig through my bag and mumble to myself.

Dad turns to me and speaks in a firm, serious tone.

“Babe, give me your knife. You are not to carry any more sharp objects with you. Understand?”

“But, Dad, he won’t dare go anywhere without his knife,” Samuel says.

“He won’t be going anywhere unsupervised. I am sending him to Massachusetts.”

Massachusetts.

I am going there alone after all.

I might have preferred the police lock me up in a cell. At least, I would’ve felt much safer there.

In an instant, all my hopes of living with Samuel in Los Angeles are gone. For some reason, the heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach begins to make me tune out the arguments between Dad and Samuel.

Dad doesn’t trust me anymore.

Their voices feel disembodied, detached, distant echoes of meaningless sound.

You send him to a special school now? After three years of public school? You’re just telling him you gave up on him!

Let the professionals take care of him. You can’t-

WHY CAN’T YOU TRUST ME?

Samuel! Be reasonable. You know it will be better for your bro-

For him or for you? You dragged all of us to this redneck town because of your fat contract-

Samuel, listen-

No, you listen, Dad. If you won’t take care of him, I WILL.

Let Babe stay at home, Jack. I don’t think sending him away alone is a good idea.

No. We should’ve listened to Hoffman and sent him three years ago. You know he can fix our son.

Fix me?

On the way back home, Samuel sits in the back of Dad’s SUV next to me. He casts a silent glance at me, lingering for a moment before curling his little finger over mine.

“Babe, you know Dad loves you, right?” my father says while driving the car.

I can’t see his face, so I say, “I don’t know.”

Mom turns back and looks at me. Her eyes are wet, and she purses her lips.

“I will go to Massachusetts so Mom doesn’t have to worry about me,” I mutter. Living with my brother is a fantasy and luxury I can’t afford anyway. I can’t bear the idea of him hating me if I ever become a burden.

That was my wish [‘decision’?], even if it wasn’t my desire. I look out the car windows and stare at the stars – white, bright and entrancing. For a moment, I forget about Mom, about Samuel, about going to Massachusetts; nothing else exists but the entrancing lights in the sky. I don’t even notice the stale, heavy silence for the rest of the journey home.

 

# # # # #

 

Babe, Babe.

My brother finds me sitting cross legged on the balcony. I don’t even realize someone is calling me until he taps on my shoulder.

“Why aren’t you in your room? It’s almost 3 a.m.” He sits down beside me and puts a six-pack of beer on the floor.

I don’t answer him. Instead, I point at the entrancing lights in the sky. He opens a can of beer, looking up at the sky as he gulps some down.

“Stars again?” he says when he puts the can on the floor.

“I know you exist because you always bring light to me,” I say.

My brother looks at me, confused.

“Dad’s glasses.”

He nods and smiles, “Yes, I remember. It’s hard to gain your attention.”

We sit there and look at the stars in silence. He passes me a can of beer as he opens another for himself.

“I’m not allowed to drink,” I say.

“Says the ex-con.” He laughs, and I laugh with him. I was not convicted, but I understand his joke, so I open the can and take a sip. It’s bitter and foamy. I wonder why he likes it. He’s into his fourth can when I’ve barely drunk half of mine. My head feels dizzy and light, so I lean against his shoulders

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go out with Peter alone,” he says.

“It’s not Peter’s fault.”

“I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight.”

That phrase sounds familiar. That was the first thing he said to me when he found me in the woods. I sit up, looking at him and ask, “Samuel, what happened two years ago? When I went missing?”

He empties the remainder of his beer into his mouth, shaking the can to get all of it out. He reaches out to take a fresh can of beer. He seems reluctant to answer, but I persist.

“I saw pictures of four boys in my missing-person report. Who are they?”

He takes another mouthful, looking down at the pool below our balcony, silent for a moment. Finally, he says, “They are the boys who beat you up and shut you inside a locker.”

Oh my God… Babe. I’m gonna kill ‘em. I vaguely remember him tracing the dried blood and bruises on my face that morning.

I shudder at the thought, wondering what I did to make them so angry. “W-Why did they want to hurt me?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment and says, “One of them is Elaine’s boyfriend. The janitor heard you that night; he opened up the gym locker and found you naked inside.”

“Then, what happened?” I ask.

“You hit him and ran off.”

He turns to look at me, puts his hand around my neck, stroking my hair and says, “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone out with my friends that day.”

“Why is it your fault?”

He looks at me as if I’m asking an obvious question, “Because you are my responsibility.”

“I don’t want to be your responsibility.”

“But I want it.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because nothing else feels real.”

He says I won’t understand. The truth in how people really feel isn’t revealed by their faces. It is revealed by time. And by the time it is revealed, you might feel jaded. And you will settle for a mindless fuck instead or a friendship fuelled by alcohol and adrenaline. You will start to feel unsafe, and then you will try to find security in things that last, like a university degree, a marriage certificate. With a good job, money and status, you can replace friends easily. And a marriage certificate compels the person you are supposed to love by law to keep their promises to stay by your side.

“When you drown in a sea of posers, it’s hard not to become one yourself.” And he takes another a big gulp from the can.

He is right; none of this makes sense to me. But even with the mocking tone and irreverent smile, it doesn’t occur to me whether he is joking, being sarcastic or being ironical. But I get the message that he doesn’t like dishonest people. And that worries me.

I was being dishonest with him. I love him, but I don’t want him to know how much, in case he gets frightened off.

“Sometimes, I have the funniest nightmares. I’ll wake up in a cold sweat, dreaming that I’ll be exactly like Dad in twenty years’ time. Stuck in a suburb, slaving away to pay a mortgage, buying a house I can’t afford, raising ungrateful children, having a little affair on the side but no balls to walk away.”

He stares at me, waiting for me to say something, to acknowledge, to judge.

“Then you get cancer and die.”

“We all die,” I say. I don’t understand why he gets sad over a fact of life.

“Yes, Babe. That’s why it’s important not to waste life away, living other people’s lives.”

Usually, I’d cast a glance and avoid his gaze. I don’t want to swim uninvited in the pool of his eyes, afraid to disgust him, afraid to remind myself how tall he stands and how insignificant I am.

And for the first time, I dare to stare right at him in the eye. Not the kind of stare where I scrutinize, break down and analyze his face feature by feature to find out what’s he’s feeling. Not even standing up to his provocation and showing him how brazen I’ve become.

I look back in his eyes to surrender.

I’ve learned every lesson you taught me, Samuel. This is me. And this is what I want.

All of it – my love, my devotion, my trust, my lust, my yearnings, my fears and guilt and resolve; there is nothing but truth between us now.

Bare everything in my eyes and corner him; let him crush all my hopes once and for all. Either way, when this summer is over, he will be in LA, and I will be in Massachusetts; we will drift apart again, and so will our hearts when adulthood finally erects a wall that even Eden can’t erode away with its gushing [‘swirling’?]waters. Who knows how long till we see each other again.

I stare back at him because there is no hope left. Nothing to lose except my own honesty. Because of my resolve, a wonderful revelation comes. It dawns on me that the opposite of fear isn’t courage.

It is trust.

No matter how much hell and shit life can throw at you, things always work out somehow. The world won’t end, people won’t die from your choices, and love never ceases no matter how mad or upset a person gets. Love dies when you snuff out your true passion – no matter how licentious – when you stop nursing your aches, and when you start pretending to be someone else.

Rule 645 a.1.2.1.4 becomes a Catch 22 for me. I am destined to lose him either way, whether I break the rules or not.

There is truly nothing to lose now.

“You’re making things difficult for me,” he whispers. Eyes apologetic to my longing look, but neither of us backing down.

“You want real.”

My gaze isn’t just an inconvenient woody that he can laugh off. It is blatant adoration and raw desire, not hiding, not advancing, but staring at him wherever he turns. His discomfort reminds me of Mom when it comes to two boys marrying,

Aw, gays are fine; just don’t shove it in my face.

Is that how he wants it to be now? Has he reached his limits, and he wants things to be unspoken? Let them be vague so there’s always room to jump back and laugh it off?

But I’m not letting him off the hook, not until he has seen how naked I am, not until he knows how ready I am to let every one of my feelings be trampled by his rejection – all mangled in a mush until I can’t tell fear apart from anger, and passion apart from desperation.

Tell me there is no hope for me Samuel and let me return to my own safe world. Don’t leave things hanging and make me pine for you forever.

Tell me even if it breaks my heart now.

That’s how much I want him.

Our faces inches apart, I can smell his beer; he can hear my heart. He looks into my eyes as if it’s a pool of water, like the lake near Eden, drawing him to dip his face into it, eager to explore the aquatic wonders underneath.

But he hesitates.

“It would be very wrong for me to-“

Then let me be the one to take the blame.

That’s my response when I cross that final inch and touch his lips with mine.

At that moment, something deep inside me clicks, like a gene getting switched on, like a floodgate being opened. Because suddenly, I feel a huge amount of fear being released from my gut. It’s like the first time you step out of the cave into the sun and shout out to the sky, Is that the worst you’ve got for me?

His kiss is warm and conciliatory at first, until his tongue responds almost like a reflex. For a few short seconds, I feel him stir, and his hands touch my face. Then, as if shocked, he pulls back suddenly, eyes wild and breathing heavily.

“Fuck. I’m making out with my brother,” he gasps in disbelief.

“Are you scared?” I chuckle. The whole scene is ironic: me being calm and collected while my brother flustered like a headless chicken. It’s a nice change for once.

He grabs the can beside him and takes another big gulp of beer.

I laugh out loud. He must think I’ve gone mad.

His face looks funny when he’s confused, angry and afraid all at the same time. Like he can’t decide which face he wants to show. I’ve never seen my brother waver and be so unsure before.

“Are you laughing at me?” He flicks my nose, annoyed and indignant for losing his cool.

The gesture is playful, but the anger is real. Is he angry with me? How else am I supposed to act? Does he want me to be real or to pretend I’m the sexless child everyone else wants me to be?

He regains his composure and quickly reasserts his dominance. His steely gaze is about to return, and I have one last chance to ask him, “Samuel, what am I supposed to do?”

That was the best I could come up with. How do I live with this constant ache of unrequited love?

“You will forget about me when you find someone,” he says in gentle, if not uncertain, tones.

I breathe deeply.

Finally, it is said.

All hopes can go to rest now.

There is nothing else to look forward to, except for time to pass quickly enough for this raw gaping wound to fade.

“When… will that be?”

How do I find someone whom I love this much, and who loves me back?

How do I flirt?

How do I know they are interested in me?

What should I do to keep them?

How do I make them understand me?

These are questions that once unpacked may take a lifetime to answer. How do I internalize all these convoluted social rules, full of contradictions and landmines and somehow, waltz through the mating rituals without ever knowing what the other person really feels.

When will I become normal?

His response comes almost like a mockery: work hard, practice Face Reader every day, make more friends, lose more friends, go out often, and try not to get arrested. Eventually, in ten, twenty, thirty years’ time, you might be normal enough for someone to like you. “Not likely to happen, is it?” he finally says.

A smile grows on his face after looking at me for a long time, as if he’s amused by the whole irony of it.

He puts a hand over my shoulder to hug me, placing his forehead over mine. Unlike his kiss, it isn’t conciliatory this time; it is protective, like he’s saying, I’m not letting it happen to you.

He takes another drink, smacks his lips, look straight at me, eyes gentle but resolved. He says, “Arggh… fuck it. You only live once.”

Before I know it, he sweeps me off my feet and brings me into his room, laying me down on his bed.

I am confused for a moment until he pulls down his boxers and crawls on top of me. Then he holds my face while raining kisses on me – awkward, playful, and almost teasing.

He smiles.

No regrets?

And I smile back.

No regrets.